


Touch

by CrippledMuse



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-26 23:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8379529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrippledMuse/pseuds/CrippledMuse
Summary: Just when the ritual started, Genji couldn’t be sure. But perhaps it wasn’t much longer after he revealed to the cowboy what lay behind his mask, behind the security of his helmet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for McGenji Week's Day One prompt. But it might be the only thing I'm able to do for it. RIP me and my busy life

He goes through life now as though he and the world are no longer connected. Everything beneath his finger tips is dulled, like he were encased in a thick barrier that nothing could penetrate. Hard, soft, raised, lowered, pliable, solid. No longer smooth, rough, scratchy, delicate, silky. Such a range of descriptors had been lost to him, leaving behind only a memory of what they once were and couldn’t be again. Or yet.

It took Genji far too long to realize the only place he could still feel the way he used to. Only it was limited to what remained of his face; scarred and ugly, never bared to the world, only to those who had earned the right to gaze at what he still couldn’t bring himself to. He only remembered as he laid against a pillow, and the cotton of the cool, welcoming sheets rubbed across the skin of his cheek. It was a comfort that allowed the cyborg to slip into a sleep cycle of his own accord.

Just when the ritual started, Genji couldn’t be sure. But perhaps it wasn’t much longer after he revealed to the cowboy what lay behind his mask, behind the security of his helmet.

It was an impulse, Genji remembered that, how he took Jesse’s hand and pressed it against his face. He could feel the warmth radiating from the center of the gunslinger’s palm where it rest against his cheek, pressed against the side of his nose, cupped the curve of his upper lip. Though, the finger tips were cooler, grazing the plane of his forehead. He could feel the callouses that thickened the meat of Jesse’s hand, and roughened the edges and knuckles of his fingers. He could feel them scratch along his skin as he rubbed up and down, over and over. He can feel. He can _feel_.

The next time, it was the cowboy’s face. The scent of smoke and tobacco was still thick on Jesse’s warm breath as Genji pulled him closer. He pressed their cheeks together, letting the prickle of an unshaven jaw set in. Back and forth, he rubbed, letting stubble grate him like sandpaper. Rough. Scratchy. Warm. Pliable. Over the rise of his cheek, the slope of his nose, the dip of his mouth. He can feel. He can _feel_. And he wants to feel all of Jesse, committing it to memory out of the fear he will lose even this small bit of piece and comfort one day.

Now, Jesse reaches for him, when Genji separates from the world, and his body refuses him. He loses all sensation. His hands are not his own though he’s drumming them on the table. Harshly, heavy. Each rap leaves loud noises that echo, but these fingers aren’t his. And he has to force his lungs to breathe. Everything is alien, and unreal, while his eyes go vacant. But he feels those hands upon his face. Their warmth pulls him from the free fall. Their rough callouses are solid earth for which to plant his feet. The scratch of a beard anchors him back into this mechanical, but corporeal form. He never meshes seamlessly, but at least he can feel. He can _feel_. And Jesse reminds him over and over again that it is real.

One arm is different now. Cold and unfeeling as the whole of Genji’s body. It doesn’t matter to Genji, but it matters to Jesse. Even when the gunslinger tries to hide it, bitten back through a grin, a laugh, and the draw of a cigarillo. But he sees it in Jesse’s eyes, and he knows just how much he’s lost. Again, it’s his turn to reach for the cowboy. He presses the metal against his face. He can feel the warmth from the electricity, and still cool steel of his finger tips. Though it is smooth, and glides over his scars with ease as he rubs it along his cheek, his nose, his upper lip. He can feel. He can _feel_. It’s still a part of Jesse, and he wants to feel it, too. He wants to feel all of him, even the parts that are no longer organic.


End file.
